Working Men Box Set

by J. M. Snyder

  Romy’s gasp of dismay when Mitchell let the wet cock slip from his mouth brought a smile to Mitchell’s lips. “Where…?”

  Patting down his jeans until he found his keys, Mitchell scooped them into his hand and kissed Romy’s knee. “Hold that thought,” he said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

  Romy whimpered, his hands drifting to his own saliva-slicked dick as he watched Mitchell head back to the bar. Near the register, Mitchell shucked off his shirt and tossed it to the nearest stool, then stepped over the small pile of trash he’d been sweeping when Romy had entered. On the other side of the bar were the restrooms, and inside the men’s, Mitchell quickly unlocked the condom dispenser to grab a handful of the colorful little coin-shaped packets inside. Because they were synthetic condoms, not latex, he ducked into the women’s restroom for a little extra lubricant. The dispenser there held lip balm, body glitter, fake tattoos, and single-use packets of lotion. Mitchell snatched a couple of those before returning to Romy and the prospect of a good time.

  As he approached, Romy was leaning back against the pool table, one hand lazily fisting his cock. “There you are,” he drawled, his gaze dropping from Mitchell’s face to settle on his own hard dick. “I was hoping I hadn’t scared you off. Where’d you go?”

  Coming up beside him, Mitchell dumped the condoms and lotion onto the table, then let his hand drift to Romy’s cock. “Here,” he murmured, pushing Romy’s hand aside as he leaned closer for another kiss. “Let me.”

  Mitchell’s lips touched Romy’s, which parted beneath his mouth. His tongue slipped inside, over his smooth teeth, the soft inside of his cheek, delving into him. Romy moaned beneath their kiss as he rubbed Mitchell’s wrist, up his forearm, to cradle his elbow in one hand. With sure fingers, Mitchell massaged Romy’s thick length. He encircled the shaft at its base, then kneaded his way along the veined cock to its tip, which he covered with his palm as Romy sighed into him. “Yes.”

  Taking charge, Romy moved away from the pool table and turned to lay Mitchell back. Without breaking their kiss, Mitchell hopped up onto the table, sliding over the wooden rim to lie down. The green felt was coarse and hard and cold beneath him. His dick stood up from his crotch, red and swollen. When Romy spread Mitchell’s legs, he bent down to catch his sensitive cockhead in his mouth. Mitchell bucked beneath him, hips pushing up off the table to drive as much of himself into the man as he could. His hands found the packets of condoms and lotion and dug into them, seeking purchase. “Yes,” he hissed. “God, please yes.”

  Romy caressed Mitchell’s inner thighs, spreading his legs farther apart. The aching tip of Mitchell’s penis disappeared into his mouth, then inch by inch, he watched himself swallowed between those dark lips. Romy trailed his tongue along Mitchell’s length, pulled back and let the damp cock swing free, then licked down the length, chasing after his own spit. As Mitchell watched, he moved lower, below the hard shaft to suckle at the sensitive skin of Mitchell’s balls. Against hidden skin, Romy breathed his name, leaving tiny kisses along his thighs. His slick fingers slipped easily into places Mitchell had almost forgotten he had.

  Yes.

  “Romy, now,” Mitchell moaned. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

  With one hand he reached for his own erection, throbbing to be touched, but Romy swatted his hand away. “Are you always like this? Gimme a minute here, bro.”

  From between his spread knees, Mitchell watched Romy tear into a packet of lotion with his teeth. White cream like cum squirted across his dark cheek. “Damn it,” Romy muttered, smearing it away. “This smells like peppermint.”

  Mitchell snickered. “Holiday scents,” he pointed out. “Just in time for Christmas. The girls love it.”

  Grasping Mitchell’s dick with his lotioned hand, Romy ran his fist down the thick length. “It sparkles.”

  It did. The white cream glistened in the dull lighting as Romy spread it down Mitchell’s cock. He opened a second packet, carefully this time, and cupped his hand beneath Mitchell’s balls as he squirted the cool lotion into his palm. He rubbed it into Mitchell’s skin, the sharp scent of peppermint rising around them as his fingers drew intricate designs into the soft flesh of Mitchell’s nuts. Another packet, and those slicked fingers moved lower, between Mitchell’s buttocks, to breech his trembling hole.

  Mitchell gripped the wooden sides of the pool table, dug his feet into the felt, and rose his hips up off the table. “Yes!” he cried as Romy’s thumb eased into him. “Jesus.”

  “Jesus?” Romy teased. Mitchell’s breaths came in fast gasps as that thumb stretched him wider. “What’s He have to do with this? I’m—”

  Mitchell answered for him. “Romeo.” He bucked against the hand strumming over his nuts and bit back a sob. “Fuck me, please.”

  With his other hand Romy pressed Mitchell’s throbbing cock down against his lower belly. “Romy,” Mitchell warned, thrusting against that hand. “Any minute….”

  The thumb popped out, the hand on his cock disappeared. Then Romy grasped Mitchell’s hips and pulled him down to the edge of the pool table. His feet slipped off, his legs lowering, but Romy caught one knee and held it up to his waist as he guided his hard cock into Mitchell. With a slow burn, the tip of his dick butted past the first tight ring of muscle; Romy raised Mitchell’s other leg, draping both around him until Mitchell’s ankles locked behind his ass. With a single hard thrust, he filled Mitchell completely.

  The tightness constricted Mitchell’s voice, and anything he wanted to say was lost in one long, guttural moan as he bit his lower lip to keep from screaming Romy’s name to the rooftops.

  As Romy fucked him, Mitchell arched his hips to meet the slow, steady thrusts that sent wave after wave of intense desire, pleasure, lust, washing over him. Nonsensical words tumbled from his lips. “Romy, God, you’re good, damn, you’re so good, harder, faster, please….”

  Mitchell moaned and wiggled his hips, driving them toward a faster rhythm, rising to meet each thrust eagerly. His legs tightened around Romy’s waist, the heels of his feet pushing Romy’s ass to keep him in. The pressure of Romy’s dick in him and the hands fondling his balls and cock teased him, tweaked him, brought him to the brink of orgasm then pushed him over, tumbling into a place where the only thing that existed was Romy in him, on him, loving him.

  “Merry Christmas,” Romy whispered, climbing onto the pool table to lay alongside Mitchell. Tender fingers brushed his cheek. “Take me home. Will you stay with me tonight.”

  Mitchell’s answer was a hungry kiss that made their wilting erections harden again.

  * * * *

  Romy finished sweeping the floor as Mitchell counted out the cash drawer. He’d turned up the lights above the bar, pushing back the shadows. The pool table where they had coupled hid in one corner, but the mint-tinted smell of sex hung in the air and every few minutes Mitchell glanced up to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

  It wasn’t. Romy’s shirt hung untucked from his dark jeans, and those disheveled corkscrew curls bounced as he swept. His cheeks were flushed again, not from the wind this time but from Mitchell himself. He couldn’t wait to get that man between the sheets of a comfortable bed. The remaining condoms were tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, ready for use. As he locked the night’s earnings in the bar’s safe, he asked, “You almost ready?”

  “Almost,” Romy replied, tucking the broom into the supply closet. Slipping on his coat, he stood by the door and waited for Mitchell to lock up the liquor cabinets. “I’m glad my car broke down. Sounds stupid, I know, but I would’ve never come in here otherwise.”

  Mitchell laughed. Grabbing up his own coat, he winked at Romy. “You’re saying you liked coming in here, didn’t you?”

  Romy elbowed him playfully. “You know what I mean.”

  He held the door for Mitchell and together they stepped into snow that still fell gently. The streets and sidewalks were covered with the powdery dusting, unmarred by footprints, so pure and cle
an. Everything looked fresh and new and amazing. Mitchell paused to lock the door behind them, and Romy’s arm came up around his shoulders. When Mitchell turned, he found himself in the span of Romy’s embrace.

  With a smile, Mitchell leaned in to kiss his cheek but Romy had other plans and caught the kiss on his mouth instead. Who needs mistletoe? Their lips met with a velvet crush as soft as rose petals, as gentle as the falling snow. Dear Santa. Thanks.

  Around them the night stretched away like a promise they both intended to keep.

  THE END

  Easily Addicted

  “That’s bad for your health,” a man said as he approached Trevor’s bench.

  Trevor countered, “I didn’t know the Surgeon General was in town.”

  Not used to company as he stole a quick nicotine fix outside the office where he worked, Trevor didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he took a drag on his cigarette to get it lit, flicked off his lighter, took a deep breath to fill his lungs with acrid smoke, and held it until he felt his body relax. Then he squinted into the sun, but didn’t recognize the guy. Someone in sales, maybe, or one of the ad men upstairs. Trevor worked in customer care and had only been with the firm for a month or so. He could count on one hand the number of people he knew in the whole building, and none of them worked higher than the third floor. “Trevor Pritchett,” he said, holding out a hand to the stranger. “And you are?”

  “Zack Jackson,” the man said, taking Trevor’s hand in a firm grip. He had nice eyes, despite the way the skin crinkled in the corners when he smiled. With his pale twill pants, open-toe sandals, and salmon-colored polo shirt unbuttoned to show off a fine gold necklace against smooth, tanned skin, Zack looked more at home on a yacht than in the office. The dark mop of unruly hair on top of his head seemed to have a mind of its own in the faint summer breeze. Zack shook Trevor’s hand as he sat down beside him on the bench. “Nasty habit,” he said before letting go.

  With a grin, Trevor admitted, “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Really?” Zack laughed. “I couldn’t tell.”

  He didn’t wave away the smoke from Trevor’s cigarette, and the fact that he even bothered to sit suggested a level of tolerance, so Trevor gestured to the pack of cigarettes between them. “You want a smoke?”

  Zack shook his head, then ran a hand through his hair to push it back from his eyes. “I quit a few months ago.” Leaning closer to Trevor, he lowered his voice and added, “I’ll just sit here and breathe you in for a bit, if you don’t mind.” At the look on Trevor’s face, Zack laughed again. “I meant your smoke. Don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you yet.”

  That yet snagged in Trevor’s mind like a thorn. Suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to blow his next puff into Zack’s face, just purse his lips and stare into those dark eyes as the smoke curled from his mouth to waft against that tan skin. Where the hell did that come from? With deliberate care, Trevor turned away to exhale. His voice shook slightly as he pointed out, “They say second-hand smoke is worse.”

  “Who are you,” Zack wanted to know, “the Surgeon General?”

  Trevor threw him a sharp glance, but when Zack raised an eyebrow and grinned, they both started to laugh. “You’re a trip,” Trevor said with a shake of his head. “Where have they been hiding you all this time?”

  Zack’s reply was coy. “I was wondering the same thing about you.”

  “Customer service,” Trevor said. “Third floor.” He would’ve added something flirty, something along the likes of come on up and see me sometime, when Zack brushed the back of his hand against Trevor’s shoulder. It was too much, too soon… Nathan hadn’t been out of his life for three weeks and here he was messing around with someone new. He couldn’t do it. Taking a last long drag on his cigarette, he ground it out beneath his shoe and stood up to distance himself from Zack. When he stretched to play off the movement, he could feel the heat of Zack’s gaze on his body and lowered his arms. “Guess we should head back up,” he suggested. Without waiting for a response, he made for the twin glass doors at the front of the building.

  Zack caught up with him, as Trevor worried he would. “Hey, wait.” His reflection in the doors looked puzzled and he reached out again, but his hand stopped inches short of Trevor’s back before it curled into a fist and dropped out of sight. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay.” Trevor turned and flashed Zack a winning grin as he held the door. “After you.”

  Inside the foyer, one of the elevators opened and a courier stepped out. Like an overzealous puppy eager to please, Zack lunged for the doors before they could shut. “Third floor, right?”

  Trevor took one look inside the cramped space and shook his head. “I’ll take the stairs.”

  That expression again, confusion mingled with hurt, marring those bright bedroom eyes. Bedroom, heh, Trevor thought, turning away. I so don’t need to go there. Behind him, Zack called out, “Hey…”

  But Trevor was already ducking through the fire door into the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, quickly, trying to leave behind any lingering thoughts about the cute guy in ads or sales or wherever he said he was from. He didn’t say, Trevor thought. I don’t even know what floor he works on so I can avoid it. Nathan was cute, too, and then he left you for someone younger and cuter, so keep that in mind.

  Halfway up the second flight of stairs, he remembered the pack of cigarettes he’d left on the bench outside. By then he was too late coming back from lunch to turn around and get them, and when he checked on his way out at quitting time, they were gone.

  * * * *

  The next day found Trevor nervously perched on the edge of the bench, staring everyone down as they came back from lunch. He kept fiddling with his tie, which seemed too tight no matter how much he loosened it, and he smoked two cigarettes down to the filters before he realized that Zack wasn’t coming. Of course not—Trevor was stupid to even get his hopes up after how rude he’d been. I’ll take the stairs…could he have been any more of an ass? If this happened every time a guy flirted with him, he’d never get over Nathan. He didn’t know what pissed him off more, his own behavior or the fact that now he couldn’t get Zack out of his head. He’d spent over an hour this morning in front of the mirror, tucking in his shirt then pulling it out, changing pants, raking his fingers through his short red hair and wishing it would do something other than kink into impotent little whorls on the top of his head. All morning he fretted over another encounter after lunch—would Zack bother to notice him again? What could he possibly say or do to see that smile light up those eyes he now saw each time he closed his own? He didn’t even know what floor Zack worked on so he could apologize.

  “You’re a dickhead,” Trevor muttered to himself as he stubbed out his second cigarette. How had he managed to lose a chance he didn’t know he had in the first place?

  * * * *

  The weekend passed like a funeral. Trevor replayed their brief encounter over and over again in his mind, until he was certain Zack had been coming onto him, regardless of anything he’d said to the contrary. Leaning so close, breathing him in, that hand on his shoulder…what was all that about? Late Sunday night, after he had a few beers in his system, he pulled up the company website and tried to find an employee listing. No luck. The only Jackson he found was the CEO, Mike L. Jackson, listed on the company profile page. Unfortunate name, Trevor thought. No one else with that last name, and no Zack, either. Not even a photo of Mike to see if maybe he’d gotten the name wrong. But really, how could he have confused the two? Mike sounded nothing like Zach—even inebriated, Trevor knew that. And according to Mike’s CV, he’d graduated from college a year before Trevor was born. They weren’t the same guy.

  Maybe Zack didn’t even work for the firm. By Tuesday afternoon Trevor managed to convince himself that Zack had just been someone passing by. Or maybe he’d stopped to shoot the shit before going in to meet one of Trevor’s coworkers, a cousin or fag hag friend and that was why he didn’
t tell Trevor which floor he was on. Trevor’d probably never see him again…

  A familiar laugh drifted across the parking lot to the bench where Trevor sat, catching a quick smoke before he had to get back to work. Zack’s voice, he’d know it anywhere, the damn sound had haunted him since he heard it last. He took a steadying breath, inhaling enough smoke to make his head buzz, and told himself to play it cool. Hoping he looked nonchalant, Trevor stretched an arm out along the bench beside him and heard that laugh again, felt a rush through his body that had nothing to do with the nicotine. Fuck it. Why bother pretending? Zack hadn’t.

  Trevor turned, a smile already playing across his lips, but it froze when he saw that Zack wasn’t alone. Coming up the steps in front of the building, he walked with three other guys, all torn from the pages of GQ and dressed with the same negligent casualness that Zack wore so easily. One of them glanced at Trevor, who quickly looked away. I’m not here, he prayed. I don’t exist. Just keep walking and don’t notice me. As they passed in front of him, he couldn’t help but take another quick peek.

  Zack met his gaze.

  Oh shit.

  Trevor wiped a sweaty hand down his face and wished he were invisible. He heard Zack’s steps falter, heard him say, “Listen, you guys go on ahead. I’ll catch up.” Felt his heart flutter uselessly in his chest and wanted—no, needed—a smoke. Remembering the one that already burned between his fingers, Trevor stuck the damp filter between his lips and dragged deep on the cigarette. He didn’t look up as Zack approached, and stared instead at those strong, sandaled feet that stopped just inches in front of his dress shoes. “Hey there,” Zack said. “Long time, no see.”

  Clearing his throat, Trevor muttered, “Hey.” He tried to think of something else to say, but nothing came to mind. Where have you been? sounded too accusatory; I missed you, too needy. And somehow, I never imagined I could want someone I didn’t know as much as I want you, didn’t have the right ring to it. Made him sound insane, like a stalker or one of those men mothers warned their children about. He wasn’t like that. When did he get this bad?